Bilgewater: Burning Tides

Act Two - Part Four: The Dive, The Finest Pair of Boots, Oranges

I hear Graves roar as I dive off the bridge. All I can see is the rope beneath me. No need to think about the fall or the bottomless black depths.

Everything is a blur of rushing wind.

I nearly scream with joy when I catch the rope, but then it burns into my palm like a branding iron. My fall stops with a snap as I slide to the bottom of the looping tether.

I hang there a moment, cursing.

I've heard that dropping into water from this height normally won't kill a man, but I'd rather take my chances on the stone loading dock that's at least fifty feet straight down. I'll die, but it's a damned sight better than drowning.

Between me and the stone platform, a pair of heavy-duty cables run from here to the mainland, one forward, one back. Crude, noisy mechanisms power them. They're used to transport rendered down parts of sea beasts to the markets in Bilgewater proper.

The cables strum as a heavy rusted bucket, as big as a house, grinds its way toward me.

I let a smile creep on my face for a second. That is, until I see what's in the cart. I'm about to drop feet first into a seething vat of rotting fish spleen.

It took me months to earn the coin for my boots. Supple as gossamer and sturdy as tempered steel, they were crafted from the hide of an abyssal sea drake. There are fewer than four pairs in the whole world.

Damn it.

I time my jump just right and land in the middle of the chum bucket. The cold slop seeps through every hand-stitch of my prized boots. At least my hat's clean.

Suddenly, I hear that damned gun bark again.

The mooring line explodes.

The cart groans as it slides free from the cables. The wind's knocked out of me as the bucket slams into the stone platform. I feel the foundations of the dock shake before everything flips on its side.

The world falls over my head, along with a ton of fish guts.

Struggling to stand, I look for another way out. Gangplank's launches are closing in. They're nearly here.

Dazed, I drag myself toward a small boat moored on the loading dock. I'm not halfway there when a shotgun blast rips its hull wide open, scuttling it.

As the boat sinks, I drop to my knees, exhausted. I try to catch some breath over my own stench. Malcolm stands over me. Somehow, he made his way down, too. Of course he did.

"Not so charmin' now, are ya?" Graves grins, looking me up and down.

"Are you ever gonna learn?" I say, rising to my feet. "Every time I try to help you, I-"

He fires into the ground in front of me. I'm pretty sure I get a chunk of something in my shin. "If you'd just list-"

"Oh, I'm all done listenin'," he interrupts, grinding out the words. "The biggest score of our lives, and before I knew it, you were gone."

"Before you knew it? I told you-"

Another blast, another shower of stone, but I'm past caring.

"I tried to get us out. The rest of us saw the job was going south," I say. "But you wouldn't back down. You never do." The card's in my hand before I realize it.

"I told you then, all you had to do was back me up. We would've gotten out clean – and rich. But you ran," he says, stepping forward. The man I used to know seems lost under years of hatred.

I don't try to say anything else. I can see it in his eyes, now. Something's broken inside of him.

Over his shoulder, a glint catches my eye - it's a flintlock. The first of Gangplank's crewmen are on us.

Without thinking, I flick the card. It slices toward Graves.

His gun thunders.

My card takes out Gangplank's man. His pistol was leveled at Malcolm's back.

Behind me, another member of his crew slumps to the ground, a knife in his hand. If Graves hadn't shot him, he could've had me, cold.

We both look at each other. Old habits.

Gangplank's men are all around now, crowding in close, howling and jeering. There's too many to fight.

That doesn't stop Graves. He brings his gun up, but he's out of shells.

I don't draw any cards. There's no point.

Malcolm roars and goes at them. That's his way. He shatters one bastard's nose with the butt of his gun, before the mob beats him to the ground.

Hands grab me, pinning my arms. Malcolm's hauled to his feet, blood dripping from his face.

Ominously, the hoots and hollers from the mob around us fall silent.

The wall of thugs parts to reveal a red-coated figure striding toward us.

Gangplank.

Up close, he's much bigger than you'd imagine. And older. The lines of his face are deep and chiseled.

He's holding an orange in one hand, slicing off its skin with a short-bladed carving knife. He's doing it slow, making each cut count.

"So tell me, boys," he says. His voice is a deep, rumbling growl. "Do you like scrimshaw?"